


Priority Shipping

by 3BeesAndCoffee3



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxious Bucky Barnes, Awkward Flirting, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Crushes, Depression, Doctors, Hot Mailman AU, Introvert Bucky Barnes, It Isn’t Crack I Swear, M/M, Mailman!Steve, Nightmares, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Severe social anxiety, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Stubborn Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, is that a thing? it is now, like a lot, so much, tags updated with story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:03:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3BeesAndCoffee3/pseuds/3BeesAndCoffee3
Summary: Bucky has crippling social anxiety, and PTSD, and maybe a little depression, and he’s fine with it. He’s built a life for himself that works just fine without ever having to leave the comfort of his home. He just has to order things online a lot, which is great, extra great because his new mailman? He’s a walking wet dream.(I swear this isn’t as crack-ish as this sounds lmao)





	1. Chapter 1

Bucky wouldn’t say he was ever a very social person. Even in high school, parties were never his scene, he stayed far away from the front of the class, and every job he ever got included as little human contact as possible. People and Bucky didn’t click, not like he thinks they probably should have. People were too loud, too stressful, too straightforward. Bucky preferred the scene of his house with the tv playing, or music thrumming gently behind him while he reads, writes or cooks, or any other number of lovely activities that involved zero human interaction. 

Bucky’s sure he’s always been this way, and as much as it bothered his sister when they were growing up, it never bothered Bucky. It’s not effecting his life horribly now, either, like everyone warned it would. He works out three times a week, comfortably, in his upstairs room with a couple of nice pieces of workout equipment. The truth is, of course, is what started as a general aversion to people, has evolved into more or less of a fear over the years, though he probably was always scared. It’s fine, he’s managing. Sure, he doesn’t get out much, or really at all, but he’s fine.

The internet is a blessing, and he can stream movies without having to go out and buy them, he can keep up on the news without having to go out into the world and discuss it with people that’ll disagree- politics are messy, and Bucky tries to steer clear- and he can literally have food delivered to his house with a quick click of a mouse. Hell, he doesn’t even have to use the phone to call and order his takeout or whatever he needs when his anxiety is especially present, because it’s all on his laptop or his tablet, just two clicks away. There are over three grocery stores in his area that literally deliver his entire grocery list to his door and the most interaction he has to endure is a quick signature and maybe an awkward greeting and thank you. 

Bucky’s doing fine, really and truly. He doesn’t feel like he’s struggling by, like his doctor wants him so badly to believe. His doctor wants him to see a therapist, which is the last thing Bucky wants. A therapist would mean routine trips out of the house into a stuffy office where he would have to communicate one on one with some stranger who’s going to tell him how totally fucked up and antisocial he is- no thanks. 

Trips to see his doctor are hard enough, maybe, maybe getting harder. His doctor tries to wrangle him into trips out, to the park, to the bowling ally, to the health food store down the street from his house. He tries to get Bucky to take medications, too- well, more than just his anti anxiety meds that he’s truthfully not sure are doing anything. He thinks he’s depressed and battling PTSD from the accident that took his arm, and okay, Bucky understands, he does, but he doesn’t want anymore medication or anymore pitiful and sorry looks. He wants to normal and left alone. His doctor just won’t let him do it easily, it seems. 

Bucky sink’s down on the couch, pulling a blanket up over his body even though it’s a bit warm in the house and the AC is pumping. He’s exhausted. Just getting back from his doctor has seemed to literally drained him of his will to do anything but mope on his couch. He’s still clutching the piece of paper, somewhat spitefully. It’s just a piece of paper with a name and number on it, a therapist referral from his doctor. Again. 

‘I think it’ll do you good, James,’ his doctor had said, sounding too mournful for the simple topic. ‘You need to talk to people.’

Bucky grumbles to himself as he tugs the blanket up over his head, crushing the paper up in his hand. It’s not even the fact that his doctor is doing, well, what a doctor is supposed to do, that’s bothering him. It’s the fact that Bucky knows it’s true, to a degree. Yeah, he’s content living like this, content going about his very secluded life and avoiding human contact at all costs, but he also knows it isn’t normal, exactly. He knows it isn’t the healthiest, his siblings and doctors and teachers have all told him that a million times before. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier and it certainly doesn’t make him feel any better. 

The thing that bothers him, he thinks, is that in the end, he’s not hurting anyone- living his life like this. If he wants to waste away in his house like everyone is so sure he’s doing, just let him. It isn’t hurting anyone, and his sister hasn’t spoken to him in months except to badger him about getting out, getting a move on and getting married, because his little sister is already doing just that. 

He thinks he might just stay curled up on the couch like this, hidden underneath a blanket until he falls asleep. Today’s already completely drained him and done him in, and it’s not even 2 yet. He can’t help but think the only days he wastes feeling as depressed as they all want him to think he is, is when he’s forced to go talk to them. Doctors, etc.

He’s drifting, a little, his face pressed into the couch cushions. He’s not quite asleep, but he’s lazy and languid enough that he’s not quite awake either. The only thing that stirs him out of his last stupor with a start is when there’s an abrupt knock at his door. Bucky sits up, detangling himself from the blanket awkwardly. He can’t think of who it would be, especially considering all of the salesmen and church people know he won’t talk to them. 

He considers ignoring it but the tug of confusion and curiosity is enough to get him to slide off of the couch. He ignores the fact that his once neat ponytail is now sticking up awkwardly in places and that he might have lines on his skin from being pressed into the couch and opens the door with a lurch. 

Bucky’s truthfully met with the last thing he expected. Standing on his porch is a man dressed in a delivery outfit, holding a small box and one of those weird electronic things for signatures. That’s not what has Bucky’s jaw practically to the floor, of course- no, it’s the fact that this particular delivery guy is drop dead gorgeous. Bucky’s dating life is nonexistent but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know attractive people when he sees them, and this man is certainly that. He’s tall, about Bucky’s height he guesses and even though the outfit is generally unflattering, he still looks fit and stupid attractive in it. Bucky can tell from under the tan jumpsuit like uniform that he’s built, considerably more than Bucky, and his hair is blonde and messy and Bucky would sooner die than admit he instantly wants to run his hand through it. 

Then, the man grins at him, and Bucky thinks he dies. Or, at least gets very red in the face, judging by the way his ears burn hot. “Hey there, Bucky Barnes?” He asks, glancing between him and the package. 

Bucky withers almost instantly under the attention, even though it’s a pathetically basic question. “Uh— Yeah, yes, that’s me.”

The man doesn’t seem to notice, somehow, or is at least too nice to give it away. “Awesome, I just need a signature from ya real fast,” the man smiles, and his teeth as just as perfect as everything else. 

Bucky nods jerkily. “Oh, yeah, okay,” he says, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. He’s not even sure he got the words out right. Did he stutter? 

The man holds out the the little device to Bucky and a stylus, patient and smiling widely. Bucky fumbles awkwardly in response to try and navigate a way to both hold the thing and sign with only one hand. 

“Here, I got it,” the man says quickly, holding it out and steady for him. 

Bucky knows for a fact now that he’s got to be beet read, his face feels like it might actually be on fire. “Thanks,” he mutters out, and that time he’s almost certain he stutters. He had to have noticed, it’s so blatantly obvious how awkward Bucky is. 

“No problem!” He says bank cheerily, taking the tablet and pen back happily once Bucky’s finished scrawling a shaky signature. “Hey have a nice day, yeah?” He says while handing the package over and Bucky is 99.9% sure that he winks at him. 

Bucky awkwardly brushes against his hand while taking the package and inhales sharply before rushing out a quick “Yeah, you too, thanks-“ and slamming the door. 

Bucky instantly dies after the interaction. At least his interactions with his doctor are predictable, but nothing about what Bucky just experienced was predictable because he’s pretty sure he just humiliated himself to a literal God. A God who winked at him and helped hold the stupid signature tablet for him, and Christ, Bucky wants to curl up and sleep even more now. Maybe die while he’s at it. 

Instead, he settles for shakily going to open the package he had almost forgotten in the onslaught. Once he’s pried the tabs open, freed from too much packaging tape, he peers inside. Past the wrappings, he can see a remote inside. “Oh, right,” Bucky mutters softly, reaching in to pull out the stereo remote he’d bought after accidentally breaking the other. He’d completely forgotten he’d even bought it. Bucky isn’t sure if he should thank the remote for that otherworldly experience or if he should go ahead and break that one too, for making him look like an idiot. 

Bucky syncs it to his stereo and eats the leftover pizza from last night before calling it quits for the day. He should pick up the living room or do a load of laundry at least, but he’s too drained, so he hides in his bed and watched reruns of Chopped instead. Before he knows it, it’s getting dark outside, and it’s actually getting close to an acceptable time to be in bed and ready to sleep. His brain seems to have other ideas though, because at first it’s too hot, and then too cold with the fan on, and Christ, his back is killing him. After a while he finally manages to get comfortable, laying on his side, snuggled into his sheets with a fan on low in the doorway, except every time he closes his eyes all he sees is the stupid, tall, very attractive man from earlier. 

He groans and pulls one of his billion pillows over his face, pressing it down over his head in hopes he’ll just suffocate and get it over with. Bucky never thought of himself as the hopeless romantic type. In high school he’d had a crush on Julia, a girl from his science class, but he had never said anything to her and it wasn’t the kind of crush that had him head over heals or up all night thinking about her and nothing else. He thought his old math tutor was kind of attractive, all tattoos and long dark hair, but he never had a reaction like his brain is bent on making him have now. 

“Why do you do this?” Bucky howls miserably into his pillow, shaking his head back and forth like it might knock some sense back into his brain. Apparently it doesn’t work, because Bucky is still very much thinking about his fingers grazing along the back of the mans hand and his stupid, perfect, white smile. “Ohh, my god.”

He ends up browsing pictures of attractive people for a while to try and distract himself before he realizes how pathetic he is and turns his phone off. Eventually, though it’s likely due to exhaustion, he falls asleep. His dreams are nothing like his actual life, because in this dream he has a dog- or five? He isn’t sure- and his sister is already married and having children, and a lot of them. Bucky isn’t single either, as it turns out, and Bucky isn’t cripple and horribly awkward. Instead he’s romantic and happy and able to work on cars again. His boyfriend is sweet too, tall and blonde and very, very familiar. 

Bucky wakes up groggily to the sound of his alarm beeping obnoxiously and a grin plastered on his face. It takes an annoying amount of effort to stop smiling, and he crawls out of bed with a groan, scrubbing at his face. The dream is still fresh, not forgotten like his dreams sometimes are. He’s not sure why the dream made him so stupid happy or why he finds himself at his laptop after taking a quick shower, ordering some unnecessary item and paying an extra six bucks to have it shipped early, but here he is.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post, guys! I’ve been busy and I honestly didn’t expect people to like it so much <333

Bucky’s doing dishes when the doorbell rings. His windows are all open and he feels pretty damn good, really. It’s been beautiful weather the past couple of days, warm and sunny, no wind or clouds. Bucky made himself a nice lunch, and ate it happily while watching a football game he didn’t really care about. All in all, he’s been doing pretty well, and somehow the doorbell sounding only increases that. His heart skips a couple of beats and he can already feel his hand getting shaky and jittery, but it’s not just his average anxiety, it’s mixed with a nervous excitement too. 

He feels a little silly, but he pushes it aside and dries his hand off on his jeans before practically jogging across the kitchen to reach the front door. He opens it up quickly and it takes him a second to realize he’s already smiling. When the same gorgeous man from a couple of days ago is standing in front of him, he thanks whatever god might be out there. 

“Hey again,” he grins at Bucky, holding a tiny package under his arm. 

Bucky feels instantly giddy just at the idea that the man remembers him. “Hey,” Bucky mimics, face feeling flushed again. 

“I got another package for you, looks like,” he says, smiling as he looks over the yellow and padded envelope. 

“Yes! That’s mine,” he says, nodding. Which, feels stupid, because of course it’s his package. “I mean- obviously.”

The guy just grins brighter. “Not stealing innocent peoples packages?” He teases and Bucky shifts from foot to foot awkwardly in the doorway. 

He makes a noise that’s supposed to be a laugh but it sounds absolutely horrific and awkward, and Bucky wants to die. “Nope- not uh, no package stealing here.” He mumbles. 

He softens his smile and holds out the package. “Good, then I feel safe giving you this,” he chuckles. Bucky takes it, smiling shyly. 

“Thanks,” he says, tucking it under his arm so he can sign awkwardly again. 

“Have a good day, Bucky,” he says before turning and leaving, climbing back into his van. 

Bucky flushes at least three shades darker, staring blankly as he drives about five houses down to drop off another package. “He used my name and now I’m going to be jacking off to it for the rest of my life, kill me,” Bucky hisses, shutting his door, package clutched in his hand. It takes Bucky a moment of furiously blushing and fumbling with the package before he realize his fantasy mailman has no name. Or, at least not a name that Bucky’s been able to obtain. 

Bucky doesn’t even open the package before tossing it onto his couch, heading back to the sink to finish the dishes. His face feels less hot now, at least. “Okay, new goal, get his name,” Bucky says to himself, scrubbing at a plate. He can at least pride himself in joking with the guy a little, which is more than he was able to do last time. So yeah, his doctor can take his opinions elsewhere, because Bucky’s doing fine. He’s doing more than fine, and he’s not being a horrible, depressed, blob, like everyone is sure he is. 

Once his dishes are finished, which takes a whole lot longer than they used to, now that he only has one arm to work with, he plops down on his couch and tears open the package. Inside is a tiny bottle of cologne. It doesn’t smell bad, but Bucky never wears anything like that. Maybe he could wear it to his sisters wedding, it would make her happy, if nothing else. 

Bucky can’t help but chuckle softly at how useless his purchase was, just to see a guy that he never has any chance with. Bucky doesn’t do people, doesn’t do dating, especially. He’s too damned awkward for it, sweaty palms and anxiety, and dreams of the accident on repeat like a ghost. So really he’s not sure why he keeps thinking about him or why he ordered the second package. Still, even the logical thoughts he’s having don’t stop him from hoping onto his phone and ordering a new set of kitchen knives and a new shower curtain that he doesn’t really need. 

The next few days are entirely uneventful, which is perfect in Bucky’s opinion. No one calls him to bother him, no one (not even cute guys) come knocking at his door, and he doesn’t have any reason to leave the comfort of his home. There’re no doctors appointments or anything else on the itinerary and Bucky’s in heaven. He makes a couple of nice meals, spends an entire day lounging on the couch drinking smoothies and reading a book. He feels blissfully rejuvenated, enough so that it lets him clean the house a little. He isn’t even stressing about his check up with his doctor tomorrow, which is almost always dreadful and causes no less than five anxiety attacks.

He goes to sleep a little later than he should, especially considering his appointment is super early, and Bucky is not a morning person, but he has to finish his book, which absolutely does not make him cry. After he actually finishes, he curls up comfortably in his bed and falls asleep. His dreams don’t go quite as well as his day had gone, eerie lighting and various ways of reliving his accident. He sees his car roll over on repeat, feels the same mind numbing pain in his left shoulder, and then he wakes up. 

He stretches and yawns, lays on his back staring up at the ceiling. He feels groggy still, he could go back to sleep still, with ease too. The nightmare is still fresh in his mind though and even though he’s experienced a thousand times over, it still makes him feel clammy and ill. So, he gets up and takes a hot shower, washes his hair, and then he scrubs his body, once, twice- then he makes himself get out before he rubs his skin raw.

The grogginess from sleep is gone now, he feels more alert, less anxious. It’s only 6:30 so he has time before he has to force himself to the bus stop, crowded around a bunch of loud and terrifying strangers. He eats some cereal while watching the news, though he doesn’t really taste it and he isn’t sure he heard a word that was spoken by the news anchor. He hates going from 100 to 0 in the span of a day or a single evening. He can’t explain it, but it makes him feel sour in his stomach. He has the urge to just crawl back into bed, fuck his appointment, it wouldn’t be the first time he was a no show with his doctor, nor would it be the last. Still, he swallows it down and forces himself into jeans and a flannel. It’s lazy while still looking like he gives a fuck. He tugs on his shoes and has just enough of a brain to remember to grab his wallet before stumbling out the door and towards the bus stop.

It’s grey and a little windy out, not as sunny and warm like it’d been the past couple of days, but it isn’t raining at least. Luckily he’s able to make a beeline to the bus stop without running into anyone and there’s no one waiting there either. He takes a seat in the center of bench, even though it’s a dick move, he hopes it stops people from sitting near him. His leg is bouncing like crazy and he keeps checking his phone every chance he gets, even though he doesn’t know what he’s checking for. Thankfully, only one other person comes to the bus stop and he’s got headphones on and he stands fairly far away so he can finish his cigarette. He loads the bus as quickly as possible, hiding towards the back. There’s quite a few people on the bus, but they’re mostly busy sipping their expensive coffee’s or on their phone so it’s not as loud as it usually is. Bucky tries to distract himself by checking the weather, which claims it’ll probably rain later. Too bad he didn’t bring an umbrella. 

As soon as the bus arrives at his stop, he’s shuffling off the bus, trying to avoid everyone on his way out. He heads towards the office, taking a back road he knows now like the back of his hand, empty and quoted than walking alongside a busy main road. He tries making a mental list of everything he needs to talk about with his doctor, which comes out something like this:

1\. mention nightmares, if he’s feeling brave.  
2\. Ask about refilling his anxiety meds.  
3\. Ask about pushing back physical therapy. Again.  
4\. Try and convince doctor that he really, really doesn’t think talking to a stranger in a private room about his issues is going to help. No. Therapy.

And that completes his list in all of its glory. He’s aware most of his topics are avoiding one thing or another, but it’s his list, and no one can tell him how to run his list. As soon as he walks inside the building he’s hit with the smell of antiseptic and fake floral scent. It’s become familiar now, and the smell triggers a response of anxiety almost instantly. The lady smiles at him from the front desk.

“Hey, James,” she chirps, and Bucky isn’t surprised she remembers his name, just a little guilty that he can’t remember hers. “Checking in?”

Bucky nods, and that’s thankfully enough because she gives him a thumbs up and checks him in. He takes a seat stiffly by one of the windows and waits anxiously for his appointment, which lucky comes quickly, because he really wants to get out of here and back home as soon as possible. 

“James, we’re ready for you,” says one of the nurses that Bucky doesn’t recognize. He nods and stands up, following her back into one of the rooms. 

He waits for a while in the room before the doctor finally comes in, reading over a clipboard. “Hey there, Bucky, how’re you doing today?” He asks and Bucky is at least thankful he’s taken to using his nickname, instead of James, which sounds so formal. A name only his parents use, really.

Bucky clears his throat a little and rubs his palms over his pants, suddenly very sweaty. “Fine, I guess.”

His doctor nods in response and sets his clipboard down on his table and takes a seat on one of the stools. “Have you done any of the things we talked about?”

Bucky shrugs, feeling a little on the spot. “I don’t know, kind of.”

“Did you make an appointment?”

“No,” Bucky mutters, sighing. “I would rather not.”

“Bucky,” he says, sounding like a parent. “You can’t spend your entire life inside. Think of everything you’re missing out on.”

Bucky does think and not a single thing comes to mind. He’s fine with his calm, peaceful life. “I don’t spend my whole life inside,” Bucky argues. “I get out, I do things.”

His doctor sighs softly, resigned. He figures it’s well known by now that Bucky is a fight no one can win, but he gives his doctor props for not giving up. “I think some new medication might help you get out more, feel less isolated.”

“I don’t feel isolated, I’m fine with my life.”

“Okay, well maybe it will help you go to the store and buy your own groceries instead of ordering them?”

Bucky stares down at the floor so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. He knows he’s right, but if he gets new meds, he has to hope they work, hope he has no side effects, and he has to talk to a pharmacist or ten, and he just doesn’t need the stress and hassle. “I’m fine with ordering them.”

“I know. Okay, how about I refill your anxiety meds on a higher dose, you consider it a little longer, and I’ll see you next week?”

Bucky doesn’t feel like arguing or carrying this out any longer than he has to so he nods along. That sounds fine. His list is long forgotten.

“Okay, good.”

Bucky stands up to leave, somehow feeling more defeated during their short visit than usual. 

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?” He asks softly, glancing at him. His flannel is bunching up all wrong around where he tied it off- where his arm should be- and he resists the urge to tug at it.

“I think it’s time you stop being happy with where you are in life and take the rough step and take the necessary steps to better yourself, okay? You can improve what you’re working with, you don’t have to go for the minimum.”

Bucky swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to take that, but he nods along. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” His doctor nods and watches Bucky leave the office. Another pointless appointment that could have been settled over the phone. Bucky knows his doctor makes him come in solely to drag him out of the house. 

He used to be Bucky’s therapist too, but they called that off months ago after Bucky refused to open up. He just couldn’t find a way to do it or meet anyone half way. His doctor was now sure he needed to just talk to someone else, he didn’t seem to realize Bucky didn’t want to talk to anyone. 

The entire way home he felt kind of sleepy, his brain working too hard to try and think about everything his doctor had said. He didn’t have an issue with how his life was going, it wasn’t the norm, but it wasn’t bad. He still functioned, in his own way. He still ate and cleaned his house, he still took care of himself, and so he really couldn’t see the problem. 

Once he was less than a block away from his house, he could see the mail truck outside of his house and Bucky’s heart instantly forgot how to work properly. He was fairly sure he looked like death going off of how he felt. He couldn’t even remember if he brushed his hair today. He made it to the front of his house before he saw the man approaching him, carrying a couple of boxes.

The man smiles wide at Bucky once he sees him and waves with a package in hand. “Fancy seeing you here,” he says as he gets close enough Bucky can hear him.

Bucky smiles awkwardly. “At my house?”

The man just grins wider at him, looking overly pleased. “Oh, you live here? What a coincidence,” he hums. “Well, I’ve got some more packages for you.”

“Oh, right, thank you,” Bucky nods, taking the boxes from him. 

“You’re becoming a regular stop for me,” he says, leaning against Bucky’s side rail to his steps. “You know?”

“I have a lot of... stuff?” Bucky offers awkwardly.

“Important stuff,” he teases and Bucky flushes.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Will I be seeing you and more of your important packages soon?” He asks, pushing himself off of the railing. 

“Yes, definitely,” Bucky says instantly before snapping his mouth shut, blushing hot. 

He chuckles happily and nods. “Alright good. I’m Steve, by the way, not just a mystery mail guy,” he says, walking slowly backwards back to the truck. 

“Bucky,” he says back before realizing the man- Steve- already knew that from his packages. “But you knew that, sorry.”

“I’ll see you later, Buck, take care.”

Bucky nods quickly before retreating into his house, eyes wide.

Goal accomplished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, kudos and comments fuel me lmao


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